The Consumer Demon of Pushkar

Now I'm in Pushkar. Pushkar is a wonderfully appropriate place to update my blog, for there is nothing to fucking do here.

Wait, I tell a lie. One can shop. One can shop and shop and shop. It's ridiculous. I haven't felt like this much of a consumer for years, eyeing the merchandise upon the shelves, a little fat white devil on my shoulder giggling and rubbing his thorny hands together in glee and pointing out how much cooler life would be with a sword or dozens more Ali-Baba pants or colorful striped shirts or utility belts or curly-toed leather shoes or psychedelic striped hats or a two-foot Shivalingam or albums of Rajasthani music or books and books and books or carved wooden toys or, fuck, look at that thing, I don't even know what it is but it's fucking awesome and I want it. I'm throttling the leash on this miserable creature, the undying, All-American, whitewashed gobbler of unquenchable purchase-thirst, yet his strength is such that I barely control him as he gnashes his teeth ravishingly at overpriced, mediocre commodities as though dying of materialist starvation.

I've got to get the fuck out of Pushkar. But I have to be here for four more days.

The reason for this, though I'm proud of how little I've actually purchased from these grinning street vendors - one pair of patchwork chord Ali-Babas, one colorful striped shirt, sunglasses and a black kurta for myself, and some gifts for friends - is that I made the one big buy I'd planned on since I originally decided to come to India. I'm getting a hand-tailored, pinstriped magician's coat, old-school with coattails and all types of pockets. I can't freaking wait.

But until it's ready, four days from now, I have to stay in Pushkar. Which, as I've mentioned in odious rambling, hasn't got anything to do except spend money. So I suppose I'm going to be hiding in my hotel room for a while. And, occasionally, updating my blog.

So, where were we?

I finally arrived in Jodhpur. Legs and buttocks aching from the ridiculous, crowd-straddling train ride from hell, I hobbled out of the station avoiding and ignoring the immediate hustle for my rickshaw business, and scouted for a phone shack. Pulling out my slowly-deteriorating wallet, I searched for Actually's phone number, accidentally dropping a few dozen rupees in the process and attracting even more attention from the touts. I picked them out of the dirt, wiped them off, and sat down at the still-to-me-ludicrously-named STD booth. I tried the number. No beans. Either her phone didn't work here or it was out of juice or something similar. I hung up and moseyed into the throng once again.

"Hallo sir? Guest house?" cried the nearest rickshaw-wallah in near-desperation.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "I want something very cheap though."

"Good price! Three hundred fifty rupees!"

I shook my head. "Hell, naw, I want something for like a hundred. One hundred rupees." He looked appropriately aghast, as is their wont, and shook his head, managing with this simple gesture to somehow convey that although the task of finding a guest house was arduous, painful, and difficult, he was going to help me out of the goodness of his heart.

"No, sir, no available for one hundred. Two hundred fifty, maybe. Very difficult."

"Uh huh. It's ok, dude, I know you want your commission higher than a measly fifty rupees. I'll find someone else." I began to walk away, and he predictably grabbed hold of my arm.

"Ok, ok, two hundred rupees! Two hundred only! Good place!"

Ah cha. Oh well. I'd only be staying there a night anyway. I accepted his ride and we bounded off over the potholes.

The five or six workers in the place, lounging around bored watching Bollywood TV, lit up when I walked into the room, only to have their faces fall when I was followed by the rickshaw-wallah. Jodhpur is infamous for the unreasonable commissions rickshaw-wallahs demand from guest houses to which they bring tourists, nabbing for themselves anywhere up to fifty percent of the price of the room. What I should've done is walk around and find the nearest cheap place to the station. The guest house managers are usually so happy that you've shown up without a money-grubbing rickshaw-wallah creeping in ahead of you that the rooms can be haggled down to three or four times cheaper than you could get otherwise. But alas, this time the poor guys were going to lose out. The rickshaw-wallah shook my hand enthusiastically on the way out.

Pictures of the guest house owners shaking hands with Jason Schwartzman, Owen Wilson, and Adrien Brody, attired as they were for the film 'The Darjeeling Limited', lined the walls. I dumped my shit on the bed and was excited to learn that not only was the room pretty nice for the price, the internet was free, and I had actual, honest-to-Shiva hot water in my bathroom. A hot shower! The likes of which I hadn't seen in a month! Lordy, lordy, lordy! I used the internet to check my email, and found one from Actually vaguely stating the location of the place she was staying, 'by the clocktower'. I went out exploring and, surprisingly, found it without much hassle.

There was a room available there for 200 rupees that would be big enough to sustain the both of us, with very high ceilings and a nice painting of a camel on the wall. I had to go and check out of my old room not 20 minutes after I'd checked in, with the unlikely excuse of 'we've decided to catch the train to Jaisalmer tonight'. The folks at my recently-retired guest house were sad. I'd been the only one staying there.

Jodhpur isn't exactly the nicest city in India. Ultimately, despite a mammoth, picturesque fort overlooking the whole city, and many buildings being shaded a pleasant sky-blue, it's just another city teeming with the usual cows, touts, and litter. There was an elephant. That was cool. And there's this one omelette shop where I had, seriously, the best fucking omelette I've ever had. But ultimately, it wasn't an ideal place to linger for longer than a day or so.

However, one attraction in particular had been on my to-do list since planning my trip to India in the first place. As I'd read in my travel guide, the gigantic fort itself had recently been equipped with a criss-crossing course of six ziplines that would send one hurtling over the walls and surrounding environment. That sounded like my cup of tea, along with a couple other attractions scattered around India, such as paragliding off the Himalayas in Menali. Most of these sweet-sounding rides were priced at roughly $20, so I figured I could splurge a bit here and there.

I remember back in Varanasi, my enthusiasm for these sorts of attractions had been completely deflated by a punk-rock lesbian chick at the Blue Lassi. I'd been talking to the people next to her, excitedly listing off the things I want to do, and she'd made a point of interjecting how stupid all my plans sounded at every bullet-point, making me feel small and insignificant.

I'm going to call her Tnuc. Because she was a total cunt in the insulting sense of the word, but the word 'cunt' literally means goddess, and her condescension was the complete opposite of a goddess. Backwards, even.

Well, actually, no, lots of the goddesses of mythology worldwide were total condescending ho's. Maybe she was a cunt.

Whatever. I'm calling her Tnuc. Tnuc was a bitch.

"...I was thinking of going on these ziplines over a fort in Jodhpur -"

"My friend said that was really dumb," she'd interrupted.

" - and then up in Menali you can apparently go paragliding off of the freaking Himalayas -"

Tnuc let out a snort. "Yeah, for like five fucking minutes."

" - and also in Menali I heard you can roll down a mountain in a huge inflatable ball - "

At this, she'd thrown her emptied clay cup with a smash into the street, making a startled cow look up, and glared at me in withering scorn.

"That's the faggiest fucking thing I've ever heard," Tnuc sneered.

I don't know why I'd let this bitch get to me - I only ever met her that one time, for that one conversation, and she obviously had something against having fun - but for some reason all my childlike joy at the anticipation of these type of activities had suffered a blow in the damp cold of her cynicism.

Luckily, in Jodhpur, once I realized I was in the very city where you could fucking zipline over a fucking fort, Actually also thought it would be fun. So up to the fort we went.

Fucking Tnuc. It was really fun. We met up with a group of tourists from all over, including an overly rambunctious Australian (aren't they all?) and some of his travelling friends, one of whom was from freaking Santa Fe, New Mexico! I'm gonna call his Balsamic.

We're fucking everywhere.

Temple Sex and the Unbearable Heaviness of Being

Khajuraho didn't treat me so well, as I've already iterated. It was that perfectly imperfect size of not being quite big enough or crazy enough for me, while also not being small or quiet enough for me. I like extremes, and Khajuraho was an uncomfortable middle ground. The size was misleading. Having rented a bicycle and gone around most of the town in 40 minutes, I subconsciously concluded that it was peaceful enough to let down my guard in terms of touts and hawkers.

Stupid Hoku.

My second morning in Khajuraho, before I'd even attempted to view any of the numerous temples surrounding the town, I woke up, smoked a joint, and hailed a rickshaw to take me to the train station so I could get the fuck out of there. Like everyone else in Khajuraho, the rickshaw-wallah ripped me off like mad, grinning and calling me 'friend' all the while. When we turned down a dusty, desolate stretch of road, he pulled off to the side and made a motion for me to exit.

"No, dude, I said the train station," I said. He frowned and pointed up the road.

"Is there. Just there. Not far."

"Yeah, but I paid you like a hundred rupees (God I can't believe I paid you a hundred rupees) to get me to the train station. TRAIN. STATION. Not some road with a half-kilometer to go. Chalo."

He shook his head. "The parking lot, they are charge too much money. Walking, OK. Not far."

"Dude, seriously, I don't care how much they charge you, you ripped me the hell off and for that I expect to at least get all the way to where I fucking paid you to take me. C'mon."

He folded his arms and refused to budge. When I began arguing, he flipped on his radio station and drowned me out with Bollywood techno, then opened a newspaper and ignored me. Grumbling, I climbed out of the rickshaw and flipped him off. His ear-to-ear grin returned, and before I could hurl another insult his way he'd about-faced and zoomed off. I started walking. The bumping techno and auto-tuned Indian wailing slowly died into the distance.

The train station was deserted. There was literally not another soul in sight, unless you count the old man shitting on the tracks about 100 meters away. No one official, no one to buy a ticket from.

"Are you fucking kidding me," I spat. I hadn't even brought a book or anything. I wandered through the offices and rooms, under the pitifully turning fans, stepping over littered newspapers and plastic bottles. Not. A. Fucking. Soul. In. Sight. I went out the main entrance to the parking lot. Empty. I couldn't even catch a ride back to town. "They charge too much money," I mimicked the driver in a nauseating squeal. I laughed bitterly and sat on the steps, pulled out a biri, and smoked. It was only 0830. Someone would probably show up. Sometime.

Someone eventually did, I bought a ticket to Delhi, and waited another 2 hours before a couple of rickshaws arrived, overloaded with families hanging off the sides. This time, I wasn't going to pay no motherfucking hundred rupees. I went up to them.

"How much to Gole market?" I asked. They stared expressionlessly at me. One of them spat a red mouthful of pan onto the dirt, and I barely managed to get my foot out of the way. "Gole market? Gole. Market." I repeated. One of them motioned me to get in. "No, how much? Kitne?" They glanced at each other.

"One hundred," said one. His pan-masticating friend nodded subtly at him. I let out a bitter expulsion of wind and turned to the one who'd thus far avoided my eyes.

"Fifty," I said. I opened my wallet and pulled out a fifty-rupee note.

"One hundred."

"One hundred," his friend nodded assent.

"Bullshit," I said. "Sixty, bas." They smiled pitiful smiles and shook their heads. Another rickshaw was pulling up. I began walking towards it, and was stopped by their sudden cries of panic.

"No, no, wait. Sixty, OK," said the pan-chewer. At least, I think. It sounded more like "Nnn, nn, mmmmt, Ssmtmm, mmmkmmm." He motioned me in and the others made room. I plunked down and stared out the window, feeling pathetic and angry and sorry for myself.

I got ripped off far more in Khajuraho that I did in Benares. Everything - EVERYTHING - was ridiculously overpriced, and I found myself struggling to haggle only to still end up paying three times more than it was worth for a bunch of shit I didn't actually want. There were swarming hordes of overweight white people, with their polo shirts tucked into khaki shorts, squinting underneath their baseball caps and visors in the bright sunlight as they nervously followed fast-paced Indian guides sporting wide grins that revealed they'd just made a killing. I couldn't help but chuckle as they passed, shaking my head in reluctant awe as they spewed out bullshit facts they made up on the spot, completely confounding the poor Westerners as they helplessly pawed their Lonely Planets for confirmation of their tall tales.

The infamous tantric temples - "Karma Sutra Temples", as they were called by the touts - were interesting, but as I strolled around the immaculate garden, giggling like all the other white people at the gorgeously carved figures draped around each other in twosomes, threesomes, and foursomes, with even dogs and elephants getting in on the fun, it came to me that temples weren't really my thing. I hadn't even been much impressed with the Taj Mahal years earlier, my favorite experience there being the wonderfully cool marble underneath my bare feet. I took some photos and video, and recorded myself dancing and rapping in front of them for my music video to my song India, (click the link to listen to it) but after a mere half hour I was bored as hell, and wanted out of there. I ate overpriced, tasteless aloo gobhi, bought a little crippled kid a bottle of Thums Up, made small talk with a traveler from Italy and a gang of loud, giggling American valley girls, and decided all I wanted to do was go back to the guest house, smoke a joint, and read until it was time to hit the train. I began to walk.

A rickshaw slowed down next to me and buzzed its horn. Anticipating an offer for some overpriced ride, I ignored it, until the driver started shouting "USA! Japan! Hallo!" (Every motherfucker in India thinks I'm Japanese.) I turned to look, and lo and behold, it was one of the dudes I'd slightly met the day before. A socially awkward kid had taken me to a little stall for an awful lunch my first day, and when we'd gotten surrounded by a few others he'd shooed them away in seemingly unfit anger. This was one of the dudes.

"Hallo, American man!" he cried. I'm going to call him Sickle. He raised his hand to his mouth in the international gesture of chillum smoking and motioned for me to get into the rickshaw. "You wanting come smoke hashish? No price. No charge. My friend." Well, why the fuck not? I could always argue the no-price thing if he was gypping me. I hopped in.

"What's up, dude? So, no price? Only fun?" I asked.

"Only fun," he confirmed. He gunned the motor and we shook off over the potholes, excrement, and random logs. Around cows, tourists, locals and goats, he expertly wove through the lanes on every side of the street until we found ourselves careening down back alleys that reminded me somewhat of Benares. We stopped at a little concrete house, painted sky blue.

"My house," Sickle explained with pride. "Coming in? Chai?"

We entered, I met his family, gave his nieces and nephews some Flarbles, and drank Chai with himself and his uncles, who spoke no English. There was no evidence of hashish or any chillum. As soon as I'd sipped the bottom of the cup of chai, he jumped up.

"Chalo," he said. Relaxing into the flow of whatever adventure I was now on, I let him lead me outside, where we didn't reboard the rickshaw but instead clambered onto the back of his shiny new Honda motorcycle. "Gift from wedding," he explained. The dude didn't look any older than 14. We set off. I was impressed by his cycle skills, as we nearly creamed toddlers and animals and the sides of buildings, careening this way and that out of town until we came to a stop. Sickle had me ascend a bunch of stairs until we came to an unnoticeable building. "Temple," he said.

"Ah cha," I replied. It didn't look like a temple. But inside, crouched in a circle around a shivalingam, were a bunch of Indians smoking chillum. The dude who brought me there motioned for me to take a seat next to a very stoned looking guy with wide, penetrating eyes, who stared at me as though he could see my soul. I didn't know if it was an act, if he was just really stoned, or if he was actually on some other realm. I'm gonna refer to him as Scruff.

"America," he said. His eyes opened wider, as if he'd just peered deep inside me. "New Mexico." Now, that got my attention. He hadn't said Japanese! But being India, it was entirely conceivable (and in fact more than probable) that he'd discerned that information from someone I'd happened to mention it to. Especially in a town as small as Khajuraho. I nodded, unable to let the impressed, slightly astounded look stop itself from crossing my face. He nodded solemnly, and without taking his gaze off mine, packed a chillum, which he passed to me. I took a big hit, invoking the name of Shiva as I exhaled, and felt the tension of the others ease as they saw me smoke a chillum properly, not touching the bowl to my lips but creating suction with my hands. One of them nodded in approval. We smoked a couple bowls like this before the wide-eyed Indian began to talk. We'd been hanging out for about 20 minutes without him letting me know he was fluent in English. I felt a scam coming on.

"You like? It is a very good chillum, no?" Scruff asked. It was OK. I wasn't feeling it overly much, compared to the shit I'd bought off Boner in Varanasi, but I nodded assent so as not to be rude. "I have more. I can sell it to you. I love my plants. They are my guardians."

Politely, I pointed to the three-meter marijuana plants growing in the courtyard, and said, "Yeah, they look very happy. I'm sure you take good care of them." Despite the noticeable lack of any actual buds, the plants themselves looked allright. Not yellowing or anything. He smiled proudly.

"You want see my product? You must not buy, unless you are wanting. Just to see. Mine is the best in Khajuraho! Others, theirs is full of seeds. Mine, you will find maybe one, two seeds in every flower. Is the best!" I restrained myself from telling him that proper marijuana didn't have any fucking seeds at all, and was crystally and  big and gorgeous. I just nodded, smiled, and took another hit of the chillum. I was barely feeling it.

"Yeah, dude, the last weed I bought was more seeds than pot!" I agreed. Fuck it, I might as well take a look. If it turned out to be beautiful buds I would be so happy and surprised I'd buy it at a fool's price. I was getting sick of smoking hashish, particularly as you usually mix it with tobacco, of which I'm less than enamored with. Some real weed would be awesome. Scruff stood up.

"Chalo," he said. I passed the chillum, Namaste'd the others, and followed him and Sickle out the door, where I got on the motorcycle between the two of them. We took off.

It was about 20 minuted later, still speeding into the middle of nowhere, that I began to worry. "Hey, Sickle," I called. "I have a train at like 1800, and it's already 1630. We can't go very far." He grinned and waggled his head.

"No problem, America," he said confidently. "I have you at train station on time. Is my best promise! You have my word!"

"Yeah, but also be cognizant of the fact that my room is a disgrace and I have to pack," I said. "My room mess. I must pack. Must pack. Fifteen, twenty minutes pack. Train at 1800." He waggled his head.

"No problem! My promise! This India! Train say 1800, maybe 1840, 1850. No problem." I resigned myself to the journey. I'm just freaking out, I told myself. This guy's from here, he knows what's up. Indian trains are always late. I'm gonna be fine.

We arrived at this little village in the middle of nowhere. As we were pulling up, the motorcycle ran out of gasoline. I reiterated my need to be to the train station on time, and Sickle waggled his head. "No problem. I buy petrol." I followed the two up to this little temple on a hill. We passed a school. I pulled out my Blooming Flower toy I'd purchased from Doodlets before I left, and amused the children for a moment or two with the folding, colored paper. We hit the temple, and Sickle gestured broadly. "Temple," he said.

"Uh huh," I answered. Fucking temples. I don't fucking care about temples. They're everywhere. It's like churches in Texas. Who gives a shit? They packed a chillum and I smoked it. Scruff was nowhere to be seen. I was feeling uncomfortable around this gang of Indians and I pointed at a tree growing through the marble. "Can I climb that?"

"No!" cried Sickle. "Holy tree!"

"Uh huh," I said. "What about that one?" I pointed to a tree outside the temple. He barely nodded before I was off, scrambling barefoot to the brambles and ignoring the group's cries of dissent. I hit the tree, swung myself up, and scrambled to the very top as quick as I could. Paying no heed to the shouted warnings, I swing upside down and meditated. A moment's peace washed over me. When I rejoined the ground a few minutes later, I saw newfound respect in everyone's eyes except Sickle and Scruff, who watched me warily.

Scruff finally brought out his shitty ass weed and displayed it proudly. Ewww. Barely a nugget on a stem. But at least it was actually green. The last marijuana I'd bought had been a tepid black. I made a show of sniffing it, despite lacking that particular sense, and feigned being impressed. "How much?"

Scruff waggled his head. "How much you want pay?"

Now, this sucks. If they give you a starting price, you can at least cut it in half or a third and work from there. Giving the original price means you're in their terms. I tried to get him to give me a starting point to work from, but to no end. I was his friend, he insisted, so I pay what I want.

Fine. "Three hundred," I said. Three of the group held their heads in anguish.

"No, no, no, no, no possible," managed Scruff. "Best quality."

At this point I had 45 minutes to get to my train, and I was pissed. "I paid 200 for the same amount in Benares," I insisted.

"1000," said Scruff. I laughed.

"Fuck no!" They began to argue. At this point, I wanted out of there so bad, and didn't give a shit, and wanted to catch my train. I eventually paid 700  rupees for some of the most god-awful weed in the world and tried to hightail it out of there. But no doing. Apparently, by showing off my Blooming Flower toy to the kids of the village, I'd done a great evil. Now, I had to buy them all candy. Filled with resentment, I bought a bag of chocolates and was swarmed by groping, grabbing children before Sickle grabbed the bag and threw it away, the kids gallivanting after it in a mob scarier than a horde of gangsters. We fled to the motorbike.

I missed my train. Are you surprised? By the time I'd packed, jumped in the rickshaw with Sickle, and drove to the station, the iron beast was pulling out. The good thing was that because of his promise to get me there on time, Sickle didn't charge me for the whole outing, which I'm sure he would have had we made it. He promised to pick me up free of charge for the next day's train. Yeah, right. I agreed, but ended up catching it myself.

Let me take back any statement I might have made about traveling sleeper class rather than general. Fucking general class. Holy shit.

There was literally not enough room to move. I was crammed in amidst the hordes of bodies, having to force my Western mindset to not be bothered by crotches touching my ass or vice-versa, let alone putting up with elbows, knees, dirty fucking hands, heads of hair, and occasionally chins in my mouth. It was impossible to get to the bathroom. You couldn't lift your foot without bringing it down on somebody. I felt like a cow in an American slaughterhouse, clanging down the iron trail. At one point, I noticed an Indian boy grapple on to the luggage rack and pull himself above the crowd, to perch precariously upon the open door with his toes gripping the mesh across the isle. Good idea, I thought, and hoisted myself upon the opposite door. Ahh, space. 'I could do this for a few hours,' I thought. A foot below me, the mass of bodies was unmovable. I had more room to move than anyone. I felt awesome, and saw slight jealousy in the crowd's eyes. I pulled out my iPod, popped on some gangsta-rap, and chillaxed.

I couldn't get down for 6 hours. By that time, the constant tension in my legs from stretching across the isle was almost unbearable, my ass hurt from its tender perch upon the narrow door-ledge, and I was fucking tired as hell. The one time I tried to get down to piss my bag had fallen and smacked numerous people in the face, and I myself had toppled onto everyone, gashing my hand on a jagged piece of rusty metal. I managed to pee, and get back up above everyone, and considered it a miracle. My hand was bleeding, my legs ached, my ass was sorer than a rapist in prison, and every muscle was trembling from the exertion, but I could breathe. A la ve.

After six hours, the other kid had abandoned the train and I was able to somewhat stretch out on the luggage rack. My legs were still tense, having to pinch my heavy ass bag against the wall above the multitudes of people with my feet. One moment of inattention and the bag and myself would have fallen, most likely out the open door onto the gravel and metal of the speeding-past railway tracks. Somehow, I even managed to sleep for about a half hour without unburdening the pressure in my legs keeping me from dying. I have no idea how the fuck I managed that.

I finally arrived in Jodhpur.

Monkeys and Pirates and Ninjas and LANDAVA!

There's a famous V.S. Naipaul quotation about how, in India, all life appears to be sacred except human life.

What a bunch of crap.

It's probably because I tend to dig non-humans more than my mammalian counterparts that I so readily disagree. Non humans, on the whole, are not such dickheads. In India, you see a lot of humans kicking or otherwise harming dogs, cats, goats, cows, monkeys, etc, without provocation or cause. In particular swims the image of an arrogant, swarthy Indian all but strangling a starving mongrel on a chain: on his face a mischievous, cold and cocky grin, in his other hand, a thick stick of bamboo. The tortuous delight on his face is evident as he raises his stick and brings it down with a loud 'thwack' onto the poor, squealing creature. His grin widens as his eyes meet my face. I know I can say nothing, for any intrusion on my part will be carried out exponentially worse on the dog, so I do the only thing I can think of to illustrate my contempt. Without turning my glare from his terrible gaze, I hock the biggest loogie I can manage and catapult it with force into his path.

It's the little victories.

Like when I lose the one cord I need to charge my video camera in Gokarna, and am saving the like 5 minutes of battery I have left for Holi, pissed at myself, cursing my forgetful mind, because you can never capture enough of Holi in five minutes, and I go walking through the Varanasi market and there is literally one stall in the whole place with any cords whatsoever - a pathetic lot - one shitty pair of Apple headphones, two cords for Indian cell phones, a couple feet of telephone cord, and there, holy shit, there on the end, untouched and covered in a layer of dust so thick it's nearly invisible against the cellophane wrapper, thank Shiva, the one fucking cord I need. Shit yes.

Like when I somehow find myself being literally dragged along by a hash dealer despite my insistent, firm 'no's, not twenty seconds after leaving my guest house. Fuck it, I figure, and follow him so he'll let go of my arm. It's kind of the direction I'm heading anyway. We trundle down the stairs underneath the Smoking Ghat and run into a bunch of his homies.

"You want see? Good quality." He says.

"No, dude, I'm fine, I still have." I say for about the seventieth time in the last few days. I make a move to go. He grabs my arm again.

"Best hash. Good price. Just look. No buy. Good price."

"No, dude, seriously, you're starting to piss me off. No hash. I'm good. Leave me alone." I jerk away from him, skip a little to avoid a steaming pile of cow dung, and expertly weave through the crowd towards the closest little stall at which I can get toilet paper and a motherfucking lighter. He's a couple meters behind me, now, but still lingering.

"Stop friend! Hallo!" I cut right and squeeze my way to the front of the stall.

"Toilet paper, lighter." I say, mechanically making the thumb-flick that is the international gesture of lighters. The hash seller has caught up and is once again grabbing my arm. I twist my hand out of his wrist and grab it.

"Look, dude, I am never buying your hash. Ever. I don't care if it's the best, cheapest shit in town, you are never going to get my business. You fucked it up." My tone is still amicable. I'm just explaining it to him.

"Is just business..." he whined.

"Yeah, and you suck at it! Let me tell you something about Westerners. We don't like you guys all up in our faces. I don't know who first told you it was good business, but you should all go kick their ass. You won't leave me alone, so I will never buy from you, ever, just because, fuck you, that's why." He finally backed off. I wonder if I got through to him. I doubt it. But then again, FireKitty did with Boner, and that was a damn miracle.

I'm using pseudonyms now.

Boner is the Indian guy at the guest house who apparently has just five topics of conversation: will you buy some hash, do you need more hash, let's play Spot-It, please play Holi song, and are you sure you don't want any hash. He also greatly enjoys thrusting his hips to dance music and is, bewilderingly, completely fluent in French. His epithet comes from the fact that he (and everyone else at the guesthouse, but mainly him) throws his fist in the air and yells "Landava!" numerous times an hour. If you ask him, he says it's the name of the company he's going to start,  and it means "Fight for Right!" He gets all the guests to join him in yelling landava to say cheers, hello, goodbye, or just for the hell of it.

It took me like two days before I learned it means boner. That little fucker. FireKitty (an American girl staying at the guesthouse) went off on him one day about his constant bombardment of hash offers. "Try talking to me for ten minutes without mentioning hashish, and MAYBE I'll consider it." She finally got through to him and he chilled way the fuck out with his 'good business.' She's the one who started calling him 'Boner'.

Stuff was getting routine in Varanasi. It was just about time to leave. I was still having a great time, even though some of the friends I'd made were gone. Most of the Holi Gang - FireKitty and her friends - RobinSong and The Cat from America - Arm and Karr, an awesomely relaxed couple from Amsterdam, and Shipper and Mistletoe, a British couple who lived in a caravan in a gypsy camp and built ships - had moved on. There was just myself, Upman from Italy (though he was born in Karnataka), who sported a swell little moustache that made his grins mischievous, Village, a dude with an awesome face he could contort into crazy expressions, and Hammock, who spent most of his time reading in the hammock. Along with the Indians, of course - Boner, Rulez, Kook, Mercutio, little D (Babu's 3 year old deaf son), and Babu himself, who runs the place. Babu doesn't get a pseudonym because Babu's the man.

Every morning, a gang of monkeys would descend upon the temple next to the guesthouse-rooftop-chillage point. Upman, Hammock and Village were throwing food to them, arousing much interest. One of the bigger ones came over to investigate. Upman and Babu began feeding little slices of melon rind through the bars, and the monkey was attempting to pick at it but they kept pulling it back at the last second. The monkey was getting irritable.

Some of the other monkeys detached themselves from the group and wandered over too. We played with them for about 20 minutes, and the tug-of-war over the melons eventually freaked them out, puffing their cheeks and gaping at us in astonishment. Eventually they dispersed. We started throwing bits of melon to the monkeys at the temple. One of them got into it and would climb all over like we were playing fetch. At one point a melon had landed way up at the top, and the monkey was giving us a hurt look. He began circling the temple, two meters under where the melon had landed.

"He went around the temple, the monkey." said Upman. The monkey returned and looked at us, scratching his head. Upman began pointing skywards.

"It's up there, dude!" I called, in the high-pitched voice that eeks out of me when talking to animals or little humans. Upman kept on pointing. The monkey gazed piercingly at Upman's finger, and began scaling the temple.

"No way. No way. No way. Didja see that?" cried Upman.

"No way." I replied.

"We're like telling the monkey." Upman pointed and began to imitate the monkeys' calls, hooting and screeching. The monkey stopped, looked back at us, and resumed climbing.

At that moment, a murder of crows flocked out from the tip of the temple. The monkey shook his fist at them and disappeared.

"Oh, he found the bird nest!" said Upman. "Ah, they're all going up now!"

Sure enough, a troupe of monkeys had swarmed the temple, and were now scurrying to the top. One made an excellent jump from one peak to another.

"Oh, man! Did you get that?!" exclaimed Village.

"Naw, shit, I missed it," I replied, disappointed. I was filming the whole thing.

That's how Upman showed a troop of monkeys the route to a crow's nest, and how he deserved his nickname.

Varanasi was a fun blend of chillage and amazing experiences, but I decided to go the next day to the train station and get a ticket onwards. I walked around, watched some funerals, drank some lassis, ate some dosas and samosas, gave out Flarbles to street kids, and headed back to prepare some magic. Since I'd performed a number of tricks for everyone two nights before, they were always after me to display something impromptu, and I needed some stuff in my pockets. Upstairs was another Indian guy - I'm gonna call him Amerikka.

For some reason, despite my protests that I completely lacked Japanese blood, and despite three other actual Japanese people staying at the guesthouse, they'd decided my nickname was 'Japan', so hell, one of the Indians gets to be Amerikka. The first four letters of his name are the same anyway.

Amerikka had brought along someone I hadn't met yet, who all the Indians called Actually. She looked somewhat familiar, and I realized she looked very much like the combination of two of my friends back home. She had short brown hair, impeccable posture, and one of those voices that was melodically husky and rasped by cigarettes, making her go from growl to squeak at a moment's notice.

"Hello," I said. "Are you staying here?"

"No, I'm at [another guesthouse]." An unmistakable American accent. The sound of my people. She lit up a cigarette.

"Oh, cool. Where you from?"

"Chicago."

 "Sweet."

Amerikka piped up. "You want to stay here? Good place."

"It's true." I confirmed. "This is the nicest guest house I've seen so far.  Other ones have like 'rooftop restaurants' but they're just, like, restaurants. This place is really chill, and I've met some awesome people."

"It seems really nice." she said. "I don't know how long I'll be staying, though. I'm going to the train station tomorrow." She coughed. "Apparently it's like impossible to get a ticket to Delhi in like sooner than three or four days, but that's actually fine, 'cause I wanted to hang out in Varanasi anyway."

 "Word. I was going to nab a train out of here tomorrow as well." I said. Actually bummed me a cigarette.

"I haven't smoked this much in ages. I was at an ashram for like a month before I came here, and I really thought Varanasi would be a place to chill out, but I've just been smoking cigarettes and drinking like every night!" She laughed. "It's crazy!

We went through the usual traveler banter: how long have you been in India? oh, word, and Varanasi? swell, I've been here about that long... How long are you staying? And in India total? Sweet. Where are you going next? She'd been in India about a month and a half, relocated to Varanasi right on Holi, was about half done with her trip in India, and wanted to go up to Himal Pradesh.

"Sweet. I think I'm going to Kujooraho - "

" - Kajuraho - " she corrected.

" - and then hitting Rajasthan. Rajasthan's my favorite."

"I've heard that from a lot of people, actually."

"Yeah, well, I'm from the desert, and I'm like a total desert person... you know the style of clothing that's all decked out with mirrors and stuff? That originated in Rajasthan, and the camels and shit are all decked out... it's awesome."

We ended up hanging out the rest of the night, smoking and chilling and drinking and talking. Amerikka kept ordering more beers and filling up Actually's glass. At one point, Actually mentioned she wanted to swim in the Ganges.

"Oh, sweet, me too!" I exclaimed. "Shit! You're the only other person I've met who actually wants to do that."

"Do you want to share a rickshaw to the train station and then hire a boat or something?"

"Yeah, definitely." I was psyched. I'd mentioned swimming in the Ganges to everyone I'd met, hoping someone would take up the call with enthusiasm, but so far I'd received either vague 'oh-cool' s or 'Oh-My-God-it's-so-dirty-why-would-you-want-to' s.

In between joints, beers, and games of Spot-It!, I reminisced one of my favorite earliest memories.


"When I was like, six, my mum was staying at this ashram in Lucknow, right, and there was this awesome girl who was I think a couple years older than me, and she showed me how to get around the whole city, just on the rooftops, never touching the ground," I said.

"Wow, that sounds fucking awesome," said Actually.


"Yeah, hah, I had such a big crush on her. You know, for like a six year old."

"We should do that tonight!"

I cocked my head. That would be excellent. "I'm down. Where should we start?"

The next day at two I was wandering the ghat, looking for Actually, when I was waved over by Mercutio. I call him thus because he could almost be mistaken for Leonardo Dicaprio's homie in that modern version of Romero + Juliet, his skin was so dark. He was awesome, one of my favorite dudes. I'd seen him attempting to bring some tourists to my  guest house ten feet away, but he'd been waved off irritably as they struggled up the stairs under their huge bags, following a street guy I knew to be a slimy bastard. Mercutio had shrugged.

"They don't want listen another fucking Indian." he'd said with a smile. I had laughed a lot about that, almost as much as at the guy who'd offered me a guesthouse, hash, and then, with a grin, a cow, gesturing broadly to the foraging feral beasts with a sweeping hand.

Mercutio was sitting with Amerikka. "You waiting for girl?" he asked.

"Yarrr." I said.

"Sit here. She come. You have joint?"

"Uh, not on me. Up in my room, maybe."

He waggled his head. "Ah cha. This our place. You can do anything here - smoke joint, drink whiskey. Sabkuch malega. Is no problem." He pointed with his chin. "She come." I looked up and saw a distorted, shimmering version of Actually through the fires as she descended the stairs, the smoke from the Burning Ghats streaming up and raining down.

"You want I get her?" asked Amerikka.

"Nah, thanks man, I'll go. I'll get the stuff from my room, too." He waggled his head obligingly.

I was just entering Manikarnika ghat when I saw Actually sit down by the fires, then immediately stand up and begin walking back the way she'd come. She was moving at a quick pace. I had to dance my way around cows and people and dogs as I followed.

"Oy!" I called. She turned around. Tears were streaming down her face.

"Hi," she said with a laugh. "Oh, god, I got something in my eye. It fucking burns." Her eye was, indeed, red as hell, and pouring out liquid quicker than the dude peeing next to us.

"Aw, man! That sucks. But no worries, it's probably just a bit of searing flesh floating around."

She laughed. "Oh god, right? Fuck! This hurts. I need to sit down."

"Amerikka and Mercutio are right over there, it's a nice spot out of the smoke to sit."

We went. Her eye didn't stop tearing up, but it also didn't stop us from attempting the train station. Along the way to the main street where the roads were big enough to nab a rickshaw, we noticed dozens of places that would be, if not easy, at least possible to ascend. We nabbed a rickshaw at what I knew was at least 5 rupees over the price, but for less than two dollars, careening through the streets around cows, goats, bicycle rickshaws, people carrying insane loads on their heads, cars, sadhus, beggars, and stalls selling everything from silk to chillums, it seemed like a much better deal than any overpriced ride on an amusement park. Ain't nothin' like a damn Indian autorickshaw.

We got to chill in the nice A/C tourist ticket booth, which was far shorter and faster of a line than the Indian one, with couches to boot. Lucky fuckin' 'mericans. Actually went to find an ATM as I held our place in line and got our Acquisition of Ticket Request Forms. When she returned, she was still clutching a sodden mass of tissues to her eye.

"Daaaaamn. Are you OK?" I asked.

"That was crazy! I could barely see anything and I had to cross the road, and nearly got killed and then I ran into somebody! I couldn't see him at all!"

"Shit, that sucks! I'm sorry."

"Aw, whatever. I'm sorry I'm like bitching about it." She chuckled.

 "You're not bitching at all. You're like a total gangster. Where are you going?"

She'd been going to Himal Pradesh, but at the last second she decided to head to Jodhpur. "How long of a journey is that?" she asked.

"I have no idea." I replied.


"Where you go?" asked the friendly old railway ticket man, who laughed in good humor whenever the tourists had fucked something up on their Acquisition of Ticket Request Form.

"Uh... What was it... Kujorahow?" I stumbled.

"Kajuraho, yes, when you wanting leave?"

"As soon as possible."

"Ok... the 14th, yes?"

I did some quick math. Today was... wait, what the fuck was the date? The 9th? 10th?

"Yeah, sounds good." I managed. That would be a Saturday, right?

"Two hundred seventy rupees." A little more than five bucks for a twelve-hour train ride. I'm down.

We rode back into Old Benares.When I checked my ticket, I was appalled to realize that my sense of time had been skewed by the lack of a necessary schedule, and today was the 13th. That meant I would be leaving tomorrow. I was surprised and sad. I wasn't done with Varanasi yet. Not just because of recent adventures, but I wanted the time to say a proper goodbye to Babu and Boner and Upman and Village, and play some more Spot-It! and have a generally good time. Shit.

 Actually's eye was still weeping, but she wasn't deterred. We met up with Amerikka at the same little juice stall next to the Burning Ghats we'd last seen him. He offered to take us across the Ganges, and he paddled us all over. Actually took a turn at one of the oars. We got to the other side, took a deep breath, and plunged in.

"Mmm, that's kinda salty!" Actually said with a laugh as she surfaced. Ewww. We grinned, turned, and watched the smoke from the Burning Ghats across the river mingle with the twilight.

Not every body is burned in Varanasi. The fires are meant to purge bad karma, so children, pregnant women, and 'snake people' (who's fingers have grown together, and who are considered sacred) are carried into the Ganges attached to stones, and set adrift. When the monsoon season hits, those bodies and the bones of the burned are carried away.

Sometimes, the rocks come off before the monsoon.

"Look, the dog is eat the body," said Amerikka disinterestedly. We'd just come out of the water. Indeed, about three meters away was a bloated, purple figure in rags only barely recognizable as the remains of a person. A beige mutt, who looked like it ate surprisingly well for India's standards, was tearing at the rags.

"I'm glad we saw that after we swam in the Ganges," said Actually. We went over to take a closer look. One big purple bump, one medium purple bump. "Is that his head, do you think?"

It was strange how not strange it was. I suppose after seeing the daily accumulation of bodies, the parades of them down the street, unrelenting, for over a week and a half, one grows somewhat desensitized. We strode around the beach for a bit, drying out, and went to get back in the boat. By now the dog was ripping at what we'd guessed was the stomach, and, yup, those definitely looked like intestines being masticated. We hopped in the boat, bade goodbye for now, and went to our respective houses for a nice shower before attempting the rooftop venture.

The hardest part about playing Ninja in India is finding a place where no one is looking at you. After ages, we decided to at least try the temple they said was impossible (undergoing renovation, the place was not in use at the time, and would hopefully be unoccupied), and went in that general direction. Excellent. It was secluded enough, and looked easy enough, for our purposes.

It took us about an hour and a half, and lots of maneuvering, but we eventually climbed onto the black-and-white-checkered marble floor of the temple. We had to duck and scurry underneath the view of what I presume were the people watching over the temple to make sure stupid fucking American tourists didn't climb in. We had some close calls, but we got close enough to the area underneath my guesthouse rooftop that we could hear Upman and Village talking and laughing.

Unfortunately, then we were discovered. Someone went out onto their porch and saw us slinking by. We were obvious. It was embarassing.

"Uh... Hi," I said. "Hallo." He was unimpressed.

"Where you going?"

I motioned upwards, to the green balcony visible not six meters above. "My guesthouse," I said. "Uh... is this not the way?" Talk about the lamest fucking excuse in the world. His expression, humorless, was unchanged. He pointed back the way we'd come.

"Go."

"Uh... can we, like, try climbing up?" I managed. I felt like a featherless pigeon in a cockfight. His eyes narrowed.

"No."

A little shaken and humiliated, but not too much, we returned to the climb from whence we'd come.

"That was still cool," I said.

"That was awesome," Actually replied.

Someone, who was probably fucking with me but was backed up by other people, who also might have been fucking with me, had said you could see dolphins in the Ganges at sunrise. No fucking way. If it were true... that would be too awesome. Actually and I stayed up for the sunrise and meandered sleepily to the ghats. When we sat down, of course, we were accosted gently by a sadhu wanting to smear red shit on our third eyes and ask for money. He muttered a Sanskrit chant, reached out, smeared a dot on my forehead, and stuck out his hand.

"Fifty rupees."

"No, dude, sorry."

"Forty rupees."

"Om buhr, buva swaha, tat savitur verenyam, bargo devasya deemahi, dhiyo yonaha prachodayat," I replied. I stuck out my hand. "Fifty rupees." He smiled, but didn't move, and began reciting another chant. I raised my fist. "Landava!"

He burst out laughing, and departed. At that point, Actually noticed something floating in the water.

"Oh, my god, is that a dead kid?" she said, more fascinated than repulsed. I followed her gaze.

"Woah. Damn." We stared at it. "Wanna go take a closer look?"

"Ok."

We ascended the ghat. The small figure, as bloated and purple as the corpse we'd seen the day before, resembled a chicken carcass long past its sell-by date, its legs held bent and aloft, open at the groin, on its back floating peacefully amidst biscuit wrappers, flower petals, and softly knocking boats.

This resemblance to a chicken was aided by the fact that the body had no head.

Morbidly intrigued, Actually and I edged as close to the rim of the ghat as we dared. The child bobbed slowly up and down not three meters away. A passing boatman, maneuvering expertly as always amidst the accumulation of filth and boats, noticed our locked gaze.

"Hallo? Boat?"

The innocent phrase, spoken so often it was part of the passing scenery, was so out-of-place in that moment that Actually and I burst out laughing. We couldn't stop. It was hysterical. The crowd of Indians who'd predictably gathered just to watch us appeared bemused and perplexed, but we nearly fell over hooting and hollering and pointing at the boatman and the floating dead kid.

Maybe you had to be there.

We said adieu so that Actually could attend her sitar lesson, and I went to do some errands. We'd made plans to revisit the games of the day before, and I got some rum so we could play Pirates and Ninjas. It's only proper pirating if you have some rum while you're on your ship. However, it's very improper to drink on the Ganges, even if the boatmen never give a shit, so I decided to mix it with Coke to disguise it. Then I thought, fuck, I'm in India, I need Thums-Up, not Coke, and besides, 'Rum n' Thums' has a nice ring to it.

I met up with Actually, we hired a boat and returned to another, busier side of the river. It was getting a little dark.

"What time is your train?" she asked.

"Oh, no, I read the ticket wrong. I don't leave 'til Saturday." I said.

This was a lie. I had spent the morning not only acquiring Pirate-juice, but running to the station to procure another ticket. This adventure was too much fun to miss. That morning I'd thrown the I-Ching about it; my first since beginning my travels. For the outcome of leaving that day, I'd gotten The Army (Discipline) changes to The Abysmal. For the outcome of remaining in Varanasi, I'd gotten The Clinging becomes Companionship. It seemed a fairly obvious choice. I dunno why I lied about it.

We rented a boat and went over to the other side. This was a much more crowded area. But on the plus side, there were no corpses to be seen! We waded ankle deep into the water.

"Ooh, it's a lot colder than yesterday," said Actually.

"It's a lot colder," I replied. Nothing like the warmth of the day before. Maybe there hadn't been enough hot ashes dumped in it today.

"I'm a little scared," said Actually, laughing. "Should we just do it?"

I laughed, a little nervously. I was picturing those guts being ripped and chewed by the dog the day before. Something slimy touched my foot. What the fuck was that? "Uh.... yeah."

"Alright, I'm just gonna like dive the fuck in," said Actually.

"Ok."

"You wanna do it too?"

"Yah. Should we do it at the same time?"

"Yes."

"Ok.... ready?" I said.

"One, two, th--" She didn't even finish, her voice ending in a cigarette squeak as she plunged headfirst into the Ganges, leaving me standing like a bitch. I jumped in. It was quite warm, actually.

"That's nice!" I exclaimed merrily. "That's not bad at all!"

"Oh my god, that's much nicer than I thought. I'm gonna chill a little bit."

We chilled. The last rays of the sun were sparkling on the water. A group of Indian men gathered at the water's edge to stare at us.

"Hah, I'd rather get swim in the Ganges and get stared at by a bunch of other people than not swim in the Ganges at all," said Actually.

"Yeah," I replied.


That night, we scaled the roofs of Varanasi like crazy. We got so high up, we were looking down at my guest house and then we were looking down on that point. It was awesome. There were some really scary parts where we nearly died, and we nearly got caught a couple times in really iffy places, but we managed to Ninja it up until the wee hours of the dawn and get away with it Scott-free. Thank Shiva that Babu wasn't chiding or put-off by letting us in at 3 in the morning. Au contraire, he smiled and told us there was some beer upstairs, his speech made almost unintelligible as usual by his bulging mouthful of paan. Actually and I continued to hang out until our separate departures by train (by this time I'd come clean about my ticket-swap).

Now I'm in Kajuraho. My room is twice as much as it was in Varanasi (a whopping $4 a night! Wow!), but it is twice as big with twice as big a bed and an attached bathroom, and food is hella expensive (Fuckin' three dollars for a Masala Dosa, you gotta be shitting me), but the town is nice and quiet and peaceful. Wide open streets, lots of room, easy to get to sleep at night. It won't be like sleeping in Varanasi. I won't be listening to little D running in circles screaming joyful sounds he can't hear while being chased by his grandpa until 5 AM, or Babu's grandmother shrieking in agonizing pain before she wanders dazedly out of her room and shits all over the stairs, or constant chants of "Ram Ram Satyahai" from funerals all night. It will be nice and chillaxed and clean.

I've got to get out of here as soon as possible.

Holi Burning Ghat, Batman!

Sometimes my own naivety surprises and delights me. I've noticed that when my naivety is an innocent, curious wandering rather than mere ignorant unconsciousness, it often places me into adventures of prosperous synchronicity.

For example, my guest house. While following the brown-toothed drug merchant along the ghatside alleyways to his recommended locale, I couldn't help noticing the haze in the air and the absolutely mammoth piles of wooden logs stacked neatly around every corner. 'That's interesting,' I thought to myself. 'Huge piles of wood all over the place. Huh.' I immediately threw this observation aside, proceeded to check into my afore-mentioned filthy room (which, as it turned out, I completely misjudged, but more on that later) and wander about almost an entire day without realizing that my guest house was just about as close as you can be to Manikarnika Ghat and it's surrounding temples.

The Burning Ghats.

So close to my guest house that from the roof you can look down upon certain flames, dozens of bodies of devout Hindus are burned all day and all night, in a constant ceremonial offering of flesh and cleansing of karma. Numerous bodies per hour are carried through the streets by my house and artfully incinerated down to the bones.

Once again, I'm glad I have no sense of smell.

I woke up a couple days ago after an intensely disturbing dream. I found myself suddenly driving a car down a curving highway exit, by a brightly illuminated outlying mall. The shock of finding myself behind the wheel with no explanation led to me losing control of the vehicle, while the mid-40's woman in the passenger seat screamed in terror.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, HAROLD?" she yelled. I managed to skid out onto a patch of grass, where we sat, engine smoking. "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, shaken. "My name's Hoku and I'm supposed to be in Varanasi right now. What's going on?" She looked at me, aghast.

The rest of my dream was confusing and overwhelming. I was taken to a mental health clinic, where they - the doctors, the woman (named Cindy, who, tears flying, desparately attempted to convince me she was my wife), and numerous psychiatrists tried agonizingly to make me believe that I was Harold Gupson, a 43-year old electrician, who'd suddenly, bafflingly, come to think of himself as a 24-year old world traveler. The lucidity and strangeness of the dream made it so that, when I awoke, I had to spent several minutes convincing myself that I was, truly, Hoku Donovan-Smith, and that I had not undergone a relapse of my disorder.

Needless to say, I was not myself that morning. I walked through Varanasi in a haze thicker than the smoke from the corpses, feeling out of place and wandering what the hell I was doing there. I tried for over an hour to find a pay phone to call Grannia, and when I did, I sat in the gutter trying to make sense out of her crackling, distant voice. I subtly tried to get sympathy for my mental state by mentioning how overwhelmed I was by everything, the hawkers, the bodies, the bewildering maze of tall thin alleyways that make up the streets of the Old City... but I'm afraid she found my descriptions nothing by interesting and enviable, and I hung up feeling lost and discordant.

I notice I'm finally making mechanical motions that, mere days ago, had to be made of a conscious effort. for example, I never really paid attention to it, but in the States (where we drive on the right) if you walk up to someone and have to step out of their way, you usually do so on the right. This led to much stumbling, bumping, and 'sorry's on my part. Now, I reflexively go to the left, and navigate the crowds easier. Also on the list are pointing with the hand instead of the finger, and using my right hand only for food, my face, and other people where possible. The left hand touches anything that might be unsanitary, like my bum, although on that day I finally broke down and bought toilet paper, sick of wiping with water and flesh.

I meandered back home, only getting lost a couple times, and smoked a great big joint all to myself. When I exited again, I found myself smack dab in the middle of a funeral procession, and squeezed myself out of the way just as the corpse was carried past. I had seen them being burned, I had seen them being carried, but this was the closest to an actual dead person I'd yet been. Something about it twisted my worried insides and filled me with reverence as I felt the presence of death.

I enjoyed myself the rest of the day. I was, however, feeling rather lonely, and, as every Indian who called me 'friend' was an obvious hawker for guest houses, hashish, opium, boats - mostly all at once - I found myself pining for travelers of my own ilk. I looked up places in the Lonely Planet that seemed like they might contain the group I was looking for, but each restaurant/cafe/lassi shop I went to was filled with non-English speaking Chinese or too-English-speaking fat white Russian couples, glaring at their food in skeptical disgust. Eventually resigned, I returned to my room to read.

After a couple chapters which failed to grab my attention, I figured, hell, I might as well check out the rooftop cafe of the place I'm staying. I was wary of running into the dude who runs the place, who was insistent to the point of desperation that I try some of his hash or opium, but figured I could at least get a chai and watch the rowboats and candle-prayers float down the Ganges.

I walked up the stairs and into the exact fucking scene I'd been craving all day. Cool looking people relaxing in hammocks and on futons and chairs, playing games, smoking joints, and, conversing with ease. Still feeling slightly awkward, I stood out like a horse's dick as I tried to find an empty seat. Seeing my futility, a girl about my own age came up and introduced herself.

"Can I join you guys?" I asked, trying to keep the hope out of my voice. She smiled and gestured welcomingly. I sat on the futon and made introductions with the group, all of whom were staying in the same guest house and hanging out on the roof together often. It turns out that if I had indeed let them clean my room before I moved in, I would've found it to be a very decent place. Many of the others' rooms were clean and spacious. The wonderful prices are, I think due to the proximity to the Burning Ghat, which I suppose makes some travelers uneasy. I made a lot of friends that night, and went to bed immensely satisfied and more than ready to celebrate Holi.

Holi, for those of you who don't know, is India's Festival of Colors. Most popular in the north, it's when the whole country comes together to raid the streets armed with colored powder and dyes which they throw on any and all who pass. It's a chaotic, exuberant, fantastic affair loaded with catcalls and whoops of joy. It is also a time when India's strict social norms are loosened, and the citizens roam the streets drinking alcohol in view of the police and embracing openly, which is normally at the height of impropriety. The darker side to Holi is to be found in the drinking; old feuds are revenged or renewed, fights break out, and clothing is torn aggressively off locals and tourists by packs of stumbling, yelling young men.

It's definitely the best Holiday ever. I can't believe some people's favorite is, like, Christmas or some shit. Seriously, where in Christianity are you allowed to chuck water balloons at people watching funerals, or at temples, or even at complete strangers? Let alone water balloons filled with dye so strong it doesn't wash off for days. The whole town gets decorated in splashes of blue, red, orange and purple.

Now that I was hanging out with the communal group on the roof, I got the full script about the dangers of Holi from the family who run the place.

"Don't go by yourself. Don't go out before noon. Stay near the hotels. Don't exit Old Varanasi. Stay with other tourists." Et cetera. I'd purchased tons of dye powder which I'd used to fill 6 big-ass water bottles, and my backpack was full and ready for a fight. When they saw me going out with my backpack, they got worried. "Don't take your backpack. Many thieves. Leave your camera. It will be damaged."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry. My backpack - look! - only for Holi. Camera no problem. Waterproof. See?" I smilingly poured some water onto my video camera. "And, y'know, even if it gets stolen, that'll suck, but it's ok. I got rid of everything I own before I left America." I said with a smile. Still, they wouldn't let me out of the guest house. It was only when I insisted and became irritable that they consented to open the padlock and let me out, cautioning me all the while not to leave Old Varanasi. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah...' I thought.

Twelve feet from the front door and a huge wave of pink doused me from head to tow. I looked up to see some kids giggling from the roof of the adjacent building. "Good shot!" I yelled approvingly, and pulled out a bottle of dye. I was ready.

I spent about an hour and a half running around, dousing and being doused by mainly kids. I think most of the adults were, at that point, on the main street that's big enough for even rickshaws to go down, drinking and being rowdy. I wanted to find them but got lost navigating the back streets and found myself back by my guesthouse. By that time, I was freezing cold and dripping wet, so I decided to take a break. I called out until they unlocked the gate, and learned that the communal group was having like a tourist-Holi on the roof, so I went up and joined them.

If all the travelers I'd met hadn't been such lovely people, you can bet your ass I would've risked my clothing, camera and dignity to venture out to the main streets, but as it was, I was having a blast with them. We formed a platoon and started accumulating ammunition. After we had tons of bottles of dye and water balloons, we hit the streets. It totally felt like playing Call of Duty or something, running around these winding, mazelike alleyways, getting bombed from the rooftops and squirted from doorways. It was fucking awesome, and we traipsed around yelling "Happy Holi" to everyone before covering them in color. The folk from our hotel were guiding us like sheepdogs, and made sure to steer us clear of any dangerous zones, although Alex from France did indeed get his wifebeater ripped halfway off before yelling Indians berated the drunk kid who did it and chased him off. Before too long, our guides hustled us back to the guest house. It was definitely a sheltered side of Holi, which I hadn't been planning on participating in, but the exhilaration of running through the alleys like a scene from a (very colorful) war film amongst friends more than made up for it. We were all exhausted when we returned, and collapsed on the futons to smoke, eat, drink, and make merry for the remainder of the night.

Baffle Hath Spake!

Hoidy! All this wonderful insanity has inspired me lyrically, and I wrote the first decent rap I've written in ages! It still needs a title, and a hook, so if y'all have any ideas... you know... I was thinking like intheZone Man of Benares (just kidding, lame) or like Varanasi Lassi (which has a nice ring to it) or like The Burning GAT (ha just messing). Anyway. I quite like it, myself. I wish I could rap it for ya because then you'd hear how, it, like totally works to a 4-4 beat, but alas.

Here we go.

Fill a knapsack or a backpack with a load
strap that crap to your back, then hit the road
It's not a knack, in fact, it's just how to go
If you wanna know what you know you're never told
I've grown older now, but still don't
emote enough hope for the love that I hold to
the wonders of travel
It's a bunch to unravel
Even if you simply dapple you can't help but unfold

 Step outside, damn, they're really here this quick?
Everybody's thinking that this tourist is this thick?
Offering me everything they've offered me before
Always wanting more, it's a poor man's war

 "Hallo sir? Stop. Hello? Where you go?
Boat?"
No.
"Hashish?"
No.
"Opium?"
No.
"I can get you good price, best price"
No.
"Very nice. Want chais? Want boat?"
....No.

 Let your feet hit the street. Heat. Mouth watering.
Can't compete with the feat Your mind now wandering.
Pondering the awesomeness and freaked-out awfulness
See the town
beating down
the laundering with water blessed

 Tourists and locals
in the rowboats so full
The holiest river is soulful
as it glows while
Dozens of candles are floating in with a prayer
Animals, Jangles, and bells fill the air
It's dusk. The musk and the dust is being covered
in dyes, cause it's Holi, the festival of colors

Now it's time to get grassy
Better yet, nab a lassi
Apple-pineapple is what I get in Varanasi
 Sippin' and chillin' watching the passing by funerals
Nothing is immutable. The holy fire's dutiful.
They're elated to be cremated here, and that's beautiful
Solemn in walking to the only place suitable

Burn away the karma as it burns away the flesh,
and it burns
and apart for an arm, there's nothing left

  Life is a part of death. It alarms, and, yes,
it causes harm and stress:
what a test!
So far the art of this, I confess,
is too hard to grasp under my artifice, yet...
Set here with it happening around me
so confounding, Surrounding, astounding
I can't help but think about what is clouding
my vision
Then it's risen - SHIT
 This isn't about me.

Damn.

The Lone Man of Benares

Yo yo yo!

Wow, that was a helluva train ride. Overnight from Gokarna to Mumbai, then what was supposed to be 28 but ended up being 35 hours from Mumbai to Varanasi. I just got in a couple hours ago.

I was psyched about being on the tourist quota, getting an A/C sleeper cabin, but ended up somewhat regretting that inevitability. I can sleep when it's too hot - the heat actually makes me pass out quicker - but if I'm too cold I just toss and turn. They gave me fresh blankets and sheets (!) but as it turned out, keeping one underneath me simply got twisted and uncomfortable, and keeping one only on top of me made my flesh stick uncomfortably to the plastic of the bed. There was a couple next to me who snored at about 30dB in harmony, wouldn't turn the light off even if they were asleep (and would quickly turn it back if I turned it off) and received calls on their cell phones until far past 3 AM. Also, the length of the journey made killing time the biggest hardship, and hanging out the open door to see the Indians in the 3rd class compartment hanging off the side and crowding in looked like so much more fun that I've decided next time I'm going lower-class seated and resting my head on my pack. I may come to regret that decision when I experience the results, but as of now I've made up my mind.

As soon as we entered Varanasi, or Benares in it's old-school terminology, I felt great. The sight of collected cow dung patties drying by the side of the road for use in burning and building warmed my heart, and as I stepped off the train into the madness that is Varanasi Junction, I found myself weeping in joy for the first time since arriving in India.

Benares is famous for the excessive - even for India standards! - unrelenting rickshaw wallahs and touts of merchandise trying to wave you down with every foot. I was supremely grateful for having a guidebook to India so that before being assaulted I could review the map of Varanasi and get a general sense of the number of kilometers to my destination, so that when the first bicycle-rickshaw-wallah offered 200 rupees for a 4 kilometer ride, I literally burst out laughing in his face and received a reluctant grin in return. Having a map also lets you in on a sense of direction, so I knew to head East and South and wouldn't be fooled by driving in circles. I finally found a chook-chook (autorickshaw) driver who quoted 35, and as the pre-paid stand said the average was 40 into town, I agreed. When he dropped me off - nowhere near my destination - and demanded 75, I was having none of it. He was such a pushy bastard he even aggressively suggested he take me back to the train station so we could find a policeman.

"There's one right there! Shall we talk to him? Come, let's talk to him! You are a liar, I give you 35." I said, and despite his reproach I shoved the money into his hand, hopped out and decided that unless I was falling over from exhaustion, I would walk the rest of the way. I rolled a cigarette and consulted my map again, then strolled off in the direction of the nearest ghat.

Everyone wanted to give me a ride, but I got some nods of approval from rickshaw-wallahs for walking a few kilometers carrying my heavy-ass bag. I found the ghats (hundreds of stones steps leading to and along the Ganges river throughout the city) and realized I'd gone straight to a burning ghat, as my sight alighted on the smouldering remains of what was once a person. Colorful clothes were spread along the ghats, as men and women in various stages of undress did the laundry, smacking it hard against the steps.

It was another kilometer or so along the river, which did indeed get difficult as I still had my pack and was going up and down, up and down steep steps. After realizing the choices of hotel from my guide were fully booked or way to expensive, I decided to trust in fate and agree to be shown a room by one of the many dudes calling out to me along the Ganges. I went with the guy who promised he wouldn't charge me as long as I went with him afterwards to look over his stash of marijuana, hashish and opium. What the hell, right?

What a piece of shit. The place was still strewn with litter and clothes from the last visitors, including rubber gloves and tampons on the table. I loved it right away at one hundred rupees a night - even cheaper than my beach shack in Gokarna! - and placed my stuff under the bed as I went to check out las drogas, which the dude and his brother laid out on the table in their restaurant. They kept trying to get me to smell it, and didn't understand when I said I couldn't, so I played along with ooohs and ahhhs.

When I got back (my wallet lighter, my pocket fuller), the manager still hadn't cleaned the room. Fuck it, I thought, and went downstairs to get a broom. I spent about 10 minutes shoving the trash into various plastic bags littered about the place and swept the rest under the table Good enough for now. My stomach was aching from 3 days of nothing but trainstation food, so I decided to treat myself to a meal at the famous Brown Bread Bakery.

As I was leaving, the manager stopped me and said, "You lock room?" I nodded assent. "But how I clean?"

"I already cleaned." I said. He looked flabbergasted.

"You clean?" he asked in disbelief.

"Well, kind of. I swept under the table. Good enough for now." I replied. He held his hand up for a high five, grinning in delight.

I know this is a long blog already, but I've gotta tell you guys about the Brown Bread Bakery. In cooperation with the Learn for Life school, they're committed to some really exceptional causes I've yet to see much being done about in India. My meal was pretty expensive (a whopping $3, wow!) but shit, man, check out some of these quotations from their mission statement:

"Our school is running 5 classes for about 85 kids from age 5 to 15, in reading, writing, maths and English. Additionally we offer artistic skills, daily yoga classes, breakfast and lunch. To be independent from daily power cuts, the energy supply of the school will soon be provided by a solar power device. Monthly health check ups for the children and sick family members are provided."

It gets better. The meat all comes from a butcher in Delhi, trained in Europe, who holds his produce to EU standards. All the baked goods are freshly ground organic grain, from local farmers that they visit and check in on regularly. The employees get a good salary, paid holidays, health insurance and pensions. Not only that, they also run a complementary women's empowerment group. They learn the same basic skills as the students, and are learning to produce jam, pickles, muesli and tahini, which is found in the meals of the school, restaurant and bakery. To quote further:

""The empowerment of women is a very important part of our concept of sustainability...You can buy these products at the counter and all profit goes straight to the women. We can only be successful with the help of the larger community. Only solidarity can fight poverty."

I was fucking tearing up reading that shit, and sob-choking on my (delicious) bread. Like them on Facebook, people: look up Learn For Life NGO School - Varanasi, India.

Aight, I'm gonna go sample my illicit wares and purchase some white clothes for Holi. Woot woot!

Last Day on the Beach!

Howdy y'all.

So it's my last day in Gokarna, which is pretty perfectly timed. Any longer and I think I'd feel like I'm wasting my time in relaxation, and any shorter and I'd be like 'Hey, why the fuck wasn't I on the beach longer?!' I'm getting somewhat tan, making international friends, doing magic for people, swimming in the ocean... it's been fun, but the time is ripe for new adventures!

Last night, I triumphantly ended my week of inebriated debauchery by becoming too drunk and embarrassing Alex at his favorite restaurant by blasting my shitty music over the much-enjoyed tunes already playing at the cafe. Intoxicated as I was, I do not recall the incident, but concede I probably created enough shame for the both of us. As it happens, we are not now traveling to Jaipur together to celebrate Holi, but splitting at Mumbai and heading separately. It actually comes as a blessing in disguise, as I've been itching to travel alone since my trip beguth but wasn't sure how to instigate the ordeal. My one hangup in being a lonesome traveler was a curiosity as to the ease in making new friends, but as it happens, international discourse comes swiftly and without toil. I do wish I hadn't succeeded in alienated my compadre, or at least warned him that my plan all along was to make merry on the beach without hindrance or foresight. Alas. Sorry Alex. We're parting with mutual respect and affability, and I think the road will bring us both closer to whatsoever we are seeking.

Now that my forethought ploy is no longer sensible, I must grok what next to do. Certainly I shall venture northwards for the celebrations, but Jaipur never held much drawing power for me anyway, so my choice of paths is betwixt Udaipur and Varanasi. Methinks Varanasi holds more allure, for the twin reasons I've never been and heard so much. Indeed, as I sit here typing, the choice makes itself for me: Varanasi it is! The next time I regale you with my encounters, it will be in the holiest of Hindu cities, where simply dying there guarantees nirvana and the river smolders with the remains of the recently departed. For now, the ocean!